A Modest Promposal
by JessJesstheBest
Summary: Dean asks Cas to prom. There's some LARPing and Shakespeare involved. (This has nothing to do with eating Irish babies)


This was probably the hardest and most embarrassing thing Dean was ever going to do.

His hands were clammy in his leather gauntlets as he waited behind the bleachers, his tights chafing a little and his chainmail digging into his neck. He'd tried to plan this out a million times, but every time he thought he'd had something perfect, he'd imagine how Cas would react and then he had to rethink the entire thing.

He didn't think Cas would react badly – he was way too kind – but every time Dean imagined that tiny disappointed smile, the minute sigh of resignation, he wanted to stop the whole game before the kick-off.

Dean and Cas had been… well they'd been. A Something, Dean wasn't sure.

Dean wasn't sure of much – how Cas felt about him, where they would go after high school, if being so public about this was the best idea – but he knew how his heart picked up tempo every time Cas looked at him. He knew that he was dreading graduation because he couldn't stand not seeing Cas every day. He knew he didn't want to spend the rest of his life wondering 'what if'. He knew he didn't want Cas to be the one that got away: he aspired for more.

So he was standing behind the soccer field, decked out in his handmaiden costume, ready for Charlie to give him his cue.

Because another thing Dean was sure of is that Cas? Wasn't normal. Dean had scrapped hundreds of plans because they seemed too ordinary, too cliche, too _not Cas_.

Cas didn't talk about it, but Dean knew he felt misunderstood a lot of the time. No one really got him, no one understood his passions or his dreams. He told Dean a story once about how his Kindergarten class had laughed at him when he said he wanted to be a beekeeper when he grew up. He's been scoffed at during Spirit Week when he showed up in turn of the century clothes and a mask for 'Bad Boy' day, claiming he was Aphra Behn's The Rover. He was a little offbeat, a little quirky: a standard issue promposal wasn't going to work.

Dean hoped to God he'd gotten it right. He'd had to enlist the help of his best friend, Charlie, and the rest of their LARPing club so they could give him the right set up. They usually met on the field on Fridays, but this was the first time they announced that they were going to open the stands for the students to watch. Usually their role play was a closed event, to ward off heckling and pulling the players out of character, but Dean needed an audience for this and, specifically, one person to see. Dean didn't want him to be disappointed or resigned: he wanted to show Cas he knew him.

Benny had assured him Castiel was there. Dean knew that Charlie would set up his arrival magnificently, and he knew that if this went south, it was him who had messed up because the conditions were perfect.

He was a little proud of his plan, proud of what he'd accomplished. He didn't think it would be a slam-dunk, but Cas might not laugh at him at least.

The call of the hounds. Not actual hounds, but a recording. That was his cue.

Dean emerged from beneath the bleachers, walking with his head raised towards the scaffolding in the middle of the field. LARPing required a certain degree of imagination. That scaffolding was meant to serve as a stronghold for his team, the Followers of the Moon.

He hoped no one could see the sweat beading his neck. He was supposed to be 'Master of Hounds', he couldn't look nervous.

Charlie didn't acknowledge him from her throne until he was an arms length away. "Ah, Handmaiden," Dean's eye twitched. His demotion from knight to handmaiden to the Queen was a long and embarrassing story. "I am glad to see you, but alas! You have missed the proceedings! We were victorious in our vanquishing the Shadow Orcs from our domain."

Dean took a deep breath. "Aye, M'lady, but this victory is not the only one to be won this day. For thou seeth, I wilt layeth mine intentions bare." He turned towards the bleacher, breaking the isolation of the field to address the audience, but staying in character. "These four years, I have suffered illness: a sickness of the heart." Snickering from the stands. Dean kept his eyes center, refusing to scan the faces for the one he knew was there. Not yet.

He gritted his teeth and continued. "These years have weakened mine defenses, weakened mine resolve, and I cannot in good conscience continue into manhood without first expressing mine feelings of love to one of thy number. He knows who he is."

Some whispering broke out at the use of the pronoun. It wasn't a secret that Dean Winchester liked both, but he'd never seriously dated a guy. And he was claiming he loved one, not just now but for four years. Dean's character slipped a little more.

"Yes, Dean Winchester, also known as Asmodius: Master of Hounds, is making a public love confession. And not just a confession of love," he sighed licking his lips and throwing out his arms. "not just a confession but a goddamn promposal."

There were some laughs and wolf whistles from the stands. Dean flushed read, finally giving in and finding Cas's face in the stands.

He found him center row, off to the left a bit. Cas was flushed red, too, his eyes wide and his perfect plush lips parted around a gasp. Their eyes caught each other and Cas closed his mouth. He still looked mildly terrified, but he gave a small nod. Dean fell back into character, reciting the speech he'd practiced and practiced until he had it pat.

" _Let me confess that we two must be twain,_

 _Although our undivided loves are one:_

 _So shall those blots that do with me remain_

 _Without thy help by me be borne alone."_

Yeah, it was kind of cheap using Shakespeare but Dean wasn't that good with words. That and Cas was a total Shakespeare fanboy. Dean knew that. He was _using_ that.

" _In our two loves there is but one respect,_

 _Though in our lives a separable spite,_

 _Which though it alter not love's sole effect,_

 _Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight."_

Dean approached the bleachers, eyes locked on Cas. His words got louder and more passionate as he climbed the stands.

 _"I may not evermore acknowledge thee,_

 _Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,_

 _Nor thou with public kindness honour me,_

 _Unless thou take that honour from thy name:_

 _But do not so; I love thee in such sort_

 _As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report."_

Dean finished the sonnet in a rough whisper, standing with his face bent towards Cas.

Cas had lost his terrified expression sometime on Dean's walk up, as if he could only believe Dean was actually talking to him when he was standing in front of him. He was now beaming, his eyes streaming, tears flowing freely down his smiling cheeks. Dean knew his face looked much the same.

"So what do you say, Cas?" Dean reached down and pulled Cas up my his hand, holding it between two of his own. "Will you go to prom with me."

Cas let out a laugh that was half sob. He nodded vigorously before throwing himself into Dean's arms.

There was probably applause. Dean and Cas probably had a long talk after that moment. Charlie probably tackled them in a hug, Benny probably clapped him on the shoulder, but Dean didn't think about any of that. He couldn't remember any more details beyond him standing, grinning, with Cas in his arms. His clearest thought was _"That wasn't that hard._ "


End file.
